You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community you will automatically be added to our player registry (unless you opt not to) and will be able to privately find and communicate with other players in your area. You will also be able to post and reply to topics, vote in polls, and many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free so please, join our community today!

If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact us.

Are you interested in starting a play-by-post game here at Pen & Paper Games? Find out how to setup your own PBP forum.

Led by the Handgonne-Packing Man-and-a-Half MAGNAR, SON OF RAGNAR, a Knights-Vigilant force drives south into the forests in a punitive expedition, tracking down barbarian villages, sacking them, and moving onto the next. In the old Pictian style, every barbarian over the height of the axle of a wagon wheel is put to the sword, and every one under is made prisoner, to be raised by "civilised" standards.

The entire expedition moves on horseback for ease of movement, but a standard Pictian wagon wheel is brought along to ensure that proper measurements are made.

The king begins preparations for the building of a new and permanent capital city for the realm of Dalak-Tai. This begins with a search for suitable experts that will be able to guide the selection of the city's location and the planning of its layout.

After finding great solace in the holy texts of Bahrahmus, Ethos finds the morals and principals therein are indeed divine. In a public statement he declares Bahrahm the official religion of Airgead and submit himself for candidacy to the church.

After finding great solace in the holy texts of Bahrahmus, Ethos finds the morals and principals therein are indeed divine. In a public statement he declares Bahrahm the official religion of Airgead and submit himself for candidacy to the church.

results will be in a private message. 3x4 = whelp, you'll find out soon, won't yeh?

The king begins preparations for the building of a new and permanent capital city for the realm of Dalak-Tai. This begins with a search for suitable experts that will be able to guide the selection of the city's location and the planning of its layout.

2x2, 6x2, 8x2:
your men are able to find a large layer of clay, chalk, dolomite, and marble all at the base of a small (think: 3x the height of burnaby) mountain. it seems an ideal place to start building a city. gain +3 territory dice to this construction effort.

Led by the Handgonne-Packing Man-and-a-Half MAGNAR, SON OF RAGNAR, a Knights-Vigilant force drives south into the forests in a punitive expedition, tracking down barbarian villages, sacking them, and moving onto the next. In the old Pictian style, every barbarian over the height of the axle of a wagon wheel is put to the sword, and every one under is made prisoner, to be raised by "civilised" standards.

The entire expedition moves on horseback for ease of movement, but a standard Pictian wagon wheel is brought along to ensure that proper measurements are made.

Your plans initially go off without a hitch, and you are able to destroy many of their tyrant dragons amongst other things.
you realize halfway through though: they have armour. this is unusual. They have Steel weapons, and appear to have been modestly trained, and are even using pike squares against you, in addition to their ordinary hit and fade tactics.

but you aren't prepared for this:
A gigantic being of Salt, smoke, horns, and goat hoofs attacks. with a mighty axe, and an equally mighty whip, it throws itself against your men. [GM's note: It does not have wings. it does, however, have the head of a tyranosaurus rex.] even magnar's heart nearly wavers. nearly. but his thoughts are with the god-king, and he smiles upon him this day, and grants him the greatest wisdom in the midst of it all.

your men run away on their horses. those on foot though are slaughtered.
take two might (land) and two territory damage. they've taken some damage in return, at least. there is an aura of absolute panic and sheer terror in your camp that night.

'did you see him lads?! he swept aside ten men at a time! our arrows did nothing! the horned god has sent us this demon of death. what are we to do?!'

magnar glares at him. he approaches him, and simply stares down at the man.

"VICTORIES ARE NOT ALWAYS ASSURED. MAGNAR SEES OUR MEN HAVE DISRESPECTED THE FOREST, AND KNOCKED THE HORNETS FROM THE TREE."
"PICTS ONLY RETREAT WHEN BIDDEN, AND ONLY AS IT MAKES SENSE. ONLY, IN GOOD ORDER. THAT IS THE STRENGTH OF OUR HORSES. THAT IS THE STRENGTH OF PICTIA."
"BE HAPPY YOU HAVE YOUR LIFE STILL, FOR YOU CAN STILL FIGHT. THE DEAD CANNOT. WE MUST BACK TO SCHLOSSKE. I AM ORDERING NO FURTHER EXPEDITIONS UNTIL WE RECEIVE REINFORCEMENTS FROM THE OTHER NATIONS."

There is no panic in the stories that travel north. The Order's control of the mail system ensures that. The stories of an initially victorious campaign into the Southern Forest get through, so does the description of the creature which awaited at the end of it: a gigantic lizard-demon with a head the size of a cottage and teeth as long as swords. What doesn't get hollered out in the streets of Aurinsburg and Reinerath were the atrocious casualties the Magnarian Verbaende took, or the fact that in the face of those losses, the bulk of the Banner itself did the sensible thing and withdrew from the field as fast as they bloody well could.

No, instead, the public of Dalak-Tai got a rousing tale of heroism and bravado: Magnar, Son of Ragnar facing down a gigantic hell-demon (some Bahrahmian Horned Priest or other actually called it an Anti-goat, believe it or not) by himself, sword in hand, and fighting the thing to a standstill, despite the loss of many of his valiant companions. Most of it was true. Enough of it was true, and to most people, that was all that mattered.

Of course, only a fool could have called it a victory, and even Magnar, Son of Ragnar had been sensible enough to see the setback for what it was. Even he had been sensible enough to declare a moratorium on expeditions southwards until a greater force could be gathered, and even the Hochmeister had the sense to actually agree with the big Pictian oaf for once.

Adelaide von Lauenburg could only thank the God-King for that. Expanding south was a fool's errand. It had brought nothing but blood and empty boasts. There was profit to be made in looking north, in entrenching the Order in the nascent institutions of Kingdom of Dalak-Tai, of forging alliances with the feudal lords. It was their wars, against folk who could be killed properly which the Order should've be investing in.

Which was probably why the Knight-Captain was currently leading a ponderous column of siege guns into the Royal Army's siege camp outside Tunaktun. Either Cynric had finally gotten tired of listening to her perfectly reasonable policy proposals, or he'd decided to make her match gold to parchment.

Adelaide smiled herself, just a little. She'd have to try. It'd look ill on the Order to end the season without at least one victory.